Every Cloud
by Ethanamide
Summary: Angsty TFP Sherlolly one-shot, based around the songs Don't Speak by No Doubt, and Love of my Life by Queen.


Every Cloud (Love of my Life, Don't Speak.)

I heard the classic No Doubt song Don't Speak on the radio, and it screamed angsty TFP at me. If you've never heard the song you must have been living under a rock, to YouTube with you immediately! Then they next day I heard the Queen song Love of my life, and so you get this to read. Enjoy.

* * *

 _Don't speak  
I know just what you're saying  
So please stop explaining  
Don't tell me cause it hurts (no, no, no)  
Don't speak  
I know what you're thinking  
I don't need your reasons  
Don't tell me cause it hurts_

* * *

 _Love of my life don't leave me  
You've taken my love, (all of my love) and now desert me  
Love of my life can't you see  
(Please bring it back) bring it back, bring it back (back)  
Don't take it away from me (take it away from me)  
Because you don't know (oh oh oh know means to me)  
What it means to me_

* * *

The line went dead, I Love You ringing in her ears, an unshed tear threatening to spill from under her lashes. This was the straw that broke the proverbial camel's back, and although she was sure that he would have a valid excuse, maybe it had even saved her life, she couldn't do this anymore. She resisted the temptation to throw her phone at the wall, put away her tea making things, threw away the lemon, and put the mug in the dishwasher, even though she hadn't dirtied it. She went into her bedroom, packed a large suitcase with all her valuables and keepsakes, including her dad's watch and a pair of her nan's earrings. She tidied what little mess she had made, and emptied the contents of her fridge and freezer into two large cool bags, ready to drop off at one of the homeless shelters on her way out of the capital. She then switched off all her appliances, and turned the stopcock to turn off the water, unsure as to when she would be returning to London, if ever. Finally, she locked her front door, put the keys back through the letterbox, and packed up her car with the food and her suitcase. After a flying visit to the homeless shelter, she drove north to Luton, selling her car to a dealer on the edge of the town, and opting to get a bus to the airport.

She caught the first available plane out of the UK, a cramped and unglamorous short-haul flight to Paris, where she boarded a plane to the farthest away place she could get to without a stopover: Shanghai, from where she could then look to get to Australia or New Zealand. This served two purposes, it would get her as far from Sherlock Holmes and his infernal games as possible, but it would also keep her in the air all the while he would likely try to contact her to explain his behaviour. She didn't need his reasons, she didn't need his explanations, she just needed some space from the heartbreak that was surely to follow an event like this. She could see him turning up at her house at some ungodly hour, armed with the plot of a bond film masquerading as some form of explanation, and trying to let her down gently. He was a good actor, they all knew that, but the second time he'd said it had almost had her convinced, almost. She smiled a small, sad smile, proud that not only had she stood her ground, and forced those words out of him first, she'd made him beg her to say it back. Maybe with time she could convince herself that part of him did love her, but that was if he'd turn up at all, there was every chance he'd just pretend the whole thing never happened, and expect her to carry on as normal. She didn't need the pain, the hurt that the fallout of this would cause, and so she was running, for her own sanity, she was running away from Sherlock Holmes.

* * *

Unaware of the chaos at Sherrinford, but with suspicions given the radio silence she was receiving, Anthea was sat at her desk keeping an eye on the general surveillance. It had been a quiet day, given that Sherlock was away with John and Mycroft, Mrs Hudson was out on a race day and Lestrade and Molly were never any particular bother. Or at least Dr Hooper hadn't been a bother before, the CCTV outside her house had caught her with a suitcase, when Anthea knew she had no holiday planned for months. The little pathologist then displayed several instances of unorthodox behaviour before boarding a flight to Paris, and then Shanghai. Anthea wondered if she should have put Dr Hooper on the no-fly list given where her boss was today, but that would cause too many questions, and without Mycroft's direct instruction it would be difficult for her to put through such an order on her own authority. She text Mycroft to let him know the development in Molly's movements, increasingly concerned for his safety when he gave no reply.

* * *

Sherlock needed to know she was still breathing. He'd been flayed alive to save his sister's tortured soul, and was emotionally spent, questioning his whole identity. He had no patience for the buffoons of the police (Lestrade aside, of course), and even less for the agents of MI5, acting all high and mighty in his brother's absence. Once Eurus had been secured, John pulled out of the well, and both of them checked over by medical professionals, Sherlock and John were invited to discuss the day's events with a member of the security services. They were taken to an undisclosed location, a place with no cameras, a place that wouldn't be found on any map.

Sherlock wanted to know where his brother was, and if he was ok, unwilling to divulge any information before they told him. This was not taken well by the 'agent in charge', who had evidently had his eye on Mycroft's job for several years, and was willing to do anything to try and usurp his boss. He had vastly underestimated, however, the warnings in Sherlock's file, the warnings that proclaimed the man to be unstable as a result of childhood trauma, and prone to violence. It took three men to restrain Sherlock, and stop him from killing the self-professed leader. They were detained in the concrete cube for approximately an hour, before Mycroft himself entered the building, the look on his face promising that everyone there would not be allowed to work in intelligence again. The drive back to London was uneventful, and silent. Sherlock fidgeted, John slept and Mycroft began ruining the careers of those who had dared to take matters into their own hands. The car dropped Sherlock and John at John's flat, where, exhausted they fell asleep fully clothed, cups of tea abandoned.

The next morning Sherlock woke before John, and made a beeline for Molly's flat. He knocked twice, waiting patiently between knocks, before walking around the perimeter of the building, trying to gauge if he was being ignored, of if she wasn't home. The curtains seemed to imply she wasn't in, so he did something he knew she'd disapprove of, he let himself in with his key. From the keys on the welcome mat, to the empty fridge, everything about his surroundings told him that she'd left. Her father's watch was missing, and the everything let behind was in slight disarray – that wasn't to say it was untidy, just that someone had moved through the space in a hurry. He steeled himself against the feeling of overwhelming loss, and did what he'd come here to do, remove the cameras and check that the explosives were a double bluff. He locked the front door behind him, five cameras in his coat pocket, and dampness on his cheeks. His phone vibrated in his pocket, for once Mycroft was being forthcoming with his information. She'd only be away for another week or so, and that she was safe in New Zealand. She'd fled to the other side of the world to get away from him. He sat on Molly's front garden wall, and stayed there until his brother picked him up an hour later.

* * *

Tired from the cramped seats on the plane, and her emotional upheaval, Molly opted to spend a couple of days in Shanghai before flying on to Auckland. Her phone stayed switched off, as did her laptop, allowing for no means of direct contact from anyone she didn't want to talk to. She was conscious that they'd know where she was by her credit card payment, and as such had requested that should anyone ring for her, they be informed she wasn't here. She had succeeded in finding 24 continuous hours of peace in one of the busiest cites on Earth, immersing herself in the new sights, smells and culture Shanghai had to offer. When it the time came to board the plane to Auckland, she felt a pang of sadness at the prospect of leaving the city, and made a mental note to return some day.

New Zealand was an entirely different prospect, much smaller, the air cleaner, and the language mostly recognisable. It was the perfect spot to choose as a haven for her heart, with stunning vistas and a relaxed atmosphere, for the first time in quite some time, she could just be. Whereas Shanghai had allowed her to find solace in busyness, here she could hike up a mountain or canoe to the middle of a lake and just breathe. She had considered turning her phone on that first night in Auckland, just to check her emails, and maybe tell John she'd be unavailable for Rosie for the foreseeable future, but she figured they could wait until she'd had a good night's sleep first.

To her surprise, Molly found she only had two considerate text messages:

 _Rosie and I will be here when you get back. Take your time, stay safe._

 _Do not break him Dr Hooper. Money for you return flights has been deposited in your account._

Mycroft had been more direct than John, but evidently, they both knew something of her reasoning for being out here. She snorted at his comment about 'breaking' Sherlock, surely he could do without lab assistance for a week or so, there was no need to be quite so dramatic. It wasn't until she switched on the internet on her phone, to check her emails, that she realised what Mycroft truly meant. She had 90 WhatsApp messages from Sherlock, starting with a series of apologies from the first day they met, right up to that phone call, followed by the promise of a face-to-face explanation, with video evidence that he was telling the truth, and culminating with the words _don't leave_. The last 55 messages were simply the word please, on the hour, every hour. She cried until the emotional turmoil and jet lag wore her out completely, and she fell asleep again.

She slept for fourteen hours, waking up at 6 am with the weight of the world on her shoulders. She would give herself a week to think it all through, to decide on what the risk of having her heart truly broken was, and then make up her mind on whether she would return. She sent Mycroft a text that consisted of the two words _one week_ , before switching her phone off, and resolving to not switch it on again until she was in the airport. Molly threw the phone in her bag, and got out her laptop, ready to plan the week of a lifetime.

* * *

Due to the damage to both Baker Street, and his mental stability, Sherlock was staying with Mycroft, in one of the many spare bedrooms, where it didn't matter if he screamed, and with someone who had answers to the blank pages of his memory. He slept poorly, and although he remained the same to the outside world, he felt empty. John had little time between Rosie and his job to keep a close eye on his friend, but according to Mrs Hudson and Lestrade, it wasn't dissimilar to the week after he'd got married, when he took only a handful of cases to keep his brain ticking over. This time, however, there was no secret Magnussen case occupying his time, he barely moved from his room if he didn't need to, isolating himself from the world outside. Greg tried his best to lure the detective out, as did Mrs Hudson, with intriguing cases and his favourite biscuits, but as the days wore on, even Rosie couldn't draw a smile or a visit. Mycroft made sure his brother was eating, and that where possible, his queries and worries could be abated, but there was only so much that could be done in the absence of one petite pathologist. He kept an eye on her excursions, and the company she was keeping out there, until the time came to make plans for her return to Britain.

* * *

By the time she'd landed, Molly Hooper had been absent from Britain, and the life of one Sherlock Holmes for 10 days.

She was met at the plane door by Mycroft, who walked her through security, and out to the arrivals area before anyone else had received their baggage. She was assured that hers would be collected for her and taken to her house. It was odd to go through customs and border control without anyone so much as looking her way, but she supposed that was what happened when you were accompanied by a Holmes.

John was waiting at arrivals with Rosie and Sherlock, both men looking like they hadn't been sleeping well. John, she wasn't so concerned about, he was everything you'd expect a newly single father of a baby to be, but Sherlock, he looked haunted. She knew the man inside out, and the bags under his eyes were not from case related sleep deprivation, nor was the ashen pallor of his skin. Frankly, he looked a mess, maybe not to the layman, as he was in his ever-present suit, face clean shaven, but his posture was wrong, and there was no twinkle in his eye. She assumed nightmares, she knew he had suffered from them on occasion, when he had slept over at hers and woken her up more than once. They had never talked about it, she supposed that was why he kept coming back, but he had that same haunted look in his eye of a morning after one. She waved as they approached, a tired smile on her face, she was pleased to be back.

She had learnt long ago that the easiest way to avoid an awkward hello, was to address the baby directly before anybody else. She took Rosie from John, and spun her round briefly, the little girl's happy squeals warming her insides. She put Rosie in her buggy, and gave John a tight hug, knowing it would be good for him to have a little comfort too.

"Hello," She said quietly, looking up at Sherlock,

"Hello," He replied, just as quietly, a sad smile on his lips. She could tell he was uncomfortable, he kept fidgeting, with his hands in his pockets, like he wasn't sure whether to take them out or not.

"Oh come here, you great lemon." She said softly, pulling him into a hug, "I missed you,"

"I missed you too," He breathed, the words just about audible.

* * *

Molly spent the journey back to her house regaling tales of Shanghai and New Zealand, promising many photos and presents when she was reunited with her hold luggage. She knew she had only been away for 10 days, with at least two days of that spent in the air, but she felt like she'd been away for months. When they finally arrived back at her house, she looked through her handbag for her keys, becoming quite flustered, before she realised she'd posted them back through the letterbox. There was no sign of her suitcase on the doorstep, meaning Mycroft's minion must have found a way in, or that they were still waiting on the baggage reclaim – her money was on the latter. She breathed a sigh of relief when Sherlock took his keys out of his pocket and handed them to her, surprised that he hadn't rolled his eyes at her, and opened the door himself immediately on arrival.

"We took the liberty of cleaning a little, and re-stocking your fridge in preparation for your arrival home." Mycroft stated, just as Molly was about to offer some milk-less hot beverages.

"It was Sherlock's idea," John supplemented, he'd had plenty of time to think on that awful 3 minutes with the coffin, and had come to the conclusion that Molly was the one who made Sherlock a better man. He had seen, but not observed, much like the detective himself.

"Sorry. I didn't mean to invade your privacy, I didn't know you'd gone." Sherlock blurted, ever since their little altercation in the ambulance, she'd forbidden him from entering her house.

"What made you think you'd be welcome if I was here?" She asked coolly, displeased that he'd broken her rules.

"I think it's time we gave you some context for that phone call Dr Hooper. Please sit down. Sherlock will make tea." Mycroft suggested, as gently as he was able, trying to diffuse the tension that had built.

Molly, and John sat on her sofa, with Mycroft his one of her comfy arm chairs, from where he gave a succinct summary of their sister. He told the story of her incarceration and the reasons behind it, even going so far as to tell her that he'd kept her continued existence from his own parents until a week ago. He continued with the tale of Victor Trevor, and his untimely demise, and John's subsequent near miss of the same fate. He then began on the events of the day, their supposed infiltration of Sherrinford and the first two tasks, stopping after the drowning of the guilty man to take a mouthful of his tea. He gave Sherlock a pointed look before returning to his tea, suddenly silent on the matter.

"It might be easier if you watch, there is surveillance footage on our end that includes Eurus' instructions" John offered, unsure how any of them could put into words what happened both during and after that phone call. She nodded in assent, ready to cross the point of no return.

Molly watched, John and Mycroft tried not to, and Sherlock simply sat with his eyes tight shut, refusing to see the coffin again. She saw the coffin, the words on the lid, and listened to Eurus' instructions, every piece of the jigsaw falling into place. She was aware of herself on the screen, but only in the background, her attention was entirely focussed on Sherlock and his reactions to the task at hand. She wondered how she could have missed the desperation in his voice, the enforced calm, and the begging, it should have been obvious to her that he was under duress. A tear slid down her cheek as she saw him say those fateful words, the sincerity in his face was astounding, and she felt a pang of guilt at her assumptions that this was some drug fuelled experiment. Relief radiated from him after she'd said the pass code, only to be replaced by abject fury when Eurus proclaimed that it had all been a ruse, a game. She gasped audibly when he put his fist through the coffin, and by the time his whirlwind of destruction had blown itself out, tears were cascading down her face. She looked over at him through her blurred vision, he was shaking.

She crossed from her position on the sofa to where he was in the armchair in three strides. She sat on the arm of the chair and pulled him to her chest, holding him, and carding her fingers through his hair. They didn't need any more words, each other would be more than enough.

Neither noticed John and Mycroft leave the house, and then spend a few minutes watching the them through the kitchen window. John smiled to himself, every cloud had a silver lining after all.


End file.
